


Balance of Probability

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Bisexuality, Coming of Age, Confusion, Fluffy Ending, John Plays Rugby, Light Angst, M/M, Repressed John, Repression, Rugby, Teenlock, coming to terms with bisexuality, look Moni it's Jolto fluff!!!, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4376300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, John is fifteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance of Probability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonikaKrasnorada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/gifts).



> For the Rare Ship Bingo Prompt: Confused
> 
> Dedicated to my dearest Moni, who has been living in Jolto hell for so long, I thought she deserved some Jolto fluff ♥
> 
> Big thanks to Heimish (meretriciovs), for all the encouragement and also for the title. Love you so!

 

The first time it happens, John is fifteen, and he’s fresh off the pitch, sweat still clinging to his chest and hair as he steps into the showers. He lets the warm spray wash away the grime from practice, dirt and grass and all the odours acquired from heavy exertion. He turns to grab the soap from the ledge and pauses, hand on the bar. Bill’s at the shower next to him, back to John, and for no discernable reason, John is arrested by the sight. Muscles flex under tan skin as Bill washes, rivulets of water tracing their form. John’s eyes follow the water’s journey down: warm golden shoulders, tapered back, pale smooth arse. Some distant part of John’s brain clangs out a warning, but he’s unable to look away, hypnotised. The water sluices off Bill’s naked body, slick and shiny, and John is helplessly transfixed. 

Bill ducks his head back under the spray, hands ruffling his dark brown hair to rinse away the suds, then turns to switch off the tap. John whips around, soap in hand, and prays to god that Bill didn’t catch him staring. What the _hell_ was that? He scrubs furiously at his body and resolutely does _not_ think about his friend’s backside.

After that, John times his showers more carefully — staying on the field a little longer than everyone else, taking that extra lap, joking around in the locker room with the guys getting dressed. No one seems to notice that he’s always the last one in the showers. By the time he’s finally undressed, he’s all alone.

 

 

 

The second time it happens, John is playing rugby, and he’s got the ball and a clear path to the try line. Out of nowhere, an inside centre takes him down, crashing into him from behind and sending him sprawling. He lands on top of John, covering him with his larger frame and pinning him in place. He stays there longer than necessary, draped over him like a blanket, his entire body flush against John’s back. John can’t breathe, and it’s nothing to do with the weight holding him down. John can’t see, and suddenly every sense is heightened, sharpened, visceral — the sweet tang of sweat in his nostrils, hot panting breath in his ear, the feeling of hipbones pressed against his arse. John can’t think, and for this he is grateful, because he doesn’t want to have to acknowledge the dull throb in his groin, and what it might mean.

When the other boy finally gets to his feet, he offers John his hand and looks down at him with clear blue eyes, grinning and mud stained and dishevelled. John gulps, thankful for his jockstrap holding all the embarrassing bits firmly in place, and studiously avoids the player for the rest of the game. He takes a particularly cold shower after the rest of the boys have left for the day, and tries not to think too hard about why.

 

 

 

The third time it happens, John is sixteen, and his father has hired an upper sixth form student to tutor him on statistics.

John’s fairly good at maths, and absolutely smashing at the sciences, but statistics has been giving him a bit of trouble, something about the complex formulae and the concept of probabilities and just the mind-numbing endless stream of numbers makes the page go fuzzy after a while. He’s been doing accelerated work and already prepping for university, but if he doesn’t get top marks, it will throw off his average and might cost him that desperately needed full scholarship. So, his father has agreed to hire a tutor, a small investment (mostly taken out of John’s allowance, truth be told) for a potentially big payoff.

The bell rings and John opens the door and looks up into cerulean eyes, sparkling in the afternoon sun. There’s a flutter in his stomach that quickly accelerates into a flip-flop as he realises what’s happening. _No_.

The older boy smiles down at him and extends his hand.

“Hi, I’m James. You must be John.”

John takes his hand and suddenly there’s electricity running up his arm, spreading tingly warmth throughout his body. He nearly pulls away from the shock of it. _Keep it together, Watson_. He gives a polite cursory shake before releasing the too-hot hand in his. Oh god, is he sweating? He tries to surreptitiously wipe his hand on his denims without seeming as though he is attempting to rid himself of the other boy’s touch. Boy? He’s practically a man, isn’t he. And why does that thought make his heart race faster?

James clears his throat.

“Going to let me in, then?”

John realises that he’s been standing dumbly in the doorway, and blushes even further.

“Oh—sorry! Yeah, of course, come in.” He’s stumbling over his words, tongue-tied and on uneven footing, and when he moves aside and James brushes past him, he trips in his haste to get out of the way. He steadies himself on the door and closes it quickly, trying to recover from his embarrassment. “Uh, are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Let’s get to work. Where do you usually study? Bedroom?”

John swallows down a sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah, bedroom,” he manages, his voice cracking on the word. _Oh, just perfect_. He swallows again and tries desperately to compose himself. “Right this way.” 

He leads James to his room, feeling a prickle of awareness along his back the whole way. “Here we are.” God, that sounded so lame. _Shut up John, just shut up_. He throws open the door and feels a rush of gratitude that he’d tidied up, and had the forethought to put an extra chair next to his desk. He doesn’t think he could handle sitting on the floor together, or — god forbid — his bed.

James glides past him, again brushing against his body as he crosses into the room, and John feels heat radiate from the light touch. Damnit, why did this have to happen now? He closes the door behind him, back to the room, taking the opportunity to compose himself. He stares at the white expanse of door and wall and tries to blank his mind as well. _You can do this. Just focus on the numbers_. 

He turns to find James already seated at the desk, looking up expectantly, and John’s heart lurches again. _Fuck_. He quickly hurries over to his chair and opens the text book. He stares determinedly at the page.

“So, you’ve been having problems with conditional probability, yes?” John nods mutely, keeping his eyes on the text. “Well, let’s do a couple problems together, and we can talk through the process.” His voice is calm and even, deeper than John’s and strangely soothing. John finds himself falling into a sort of trance, lulled by the gently clipped cadence as James explains probability trees and dependent events. He tries to focus on the stream of numbers flowing from the pen in James’ hand, but his gaze keeps drifting, first to the light speckling of freckles on the back of that hand, then up a tanned arm, and at last — disastrously — to his face.

The late afternoon sunlight is streaming through the window, golden light picking up brilliant copper strands in James’ strawberry blond hair, creating a dazzling halo effect around his head. Pink lips form incomprehensible words, square jaw flexing as he speaks. His clear blue eyes are intent on the paper, framed by gold fringe.

John thinks he’s stopped breathing, but he can’t be sure, since he doesn’t seem to be connected to his body anymore. Everything is unreal in the haze of the setting sun, suspended and floating like the motes of dust in the air. All he can feel is his thunderous heart.

“John?” Those eyes on him, and he flushes to realise he’s been caught staring, that he’d been asked a question to which he has no answer.

“Yeah, sorry. What was that?”

“Do you want to try the next one?” John blinks, completely lost. James gives him an encouraging smile, and John wishes to god he knew what the hell they were supposed to be working on. He looks down at the page, and the numbers might as well be ancient runes for all the sense they make. 

“Uhhh…”

“Here.” James slides the pen into John’s hand, and John can’t help it, he gasps at the feeling of James’ fingers on his. John’s eyes snap back to James’, and he knows that he should just smile and take the pen and play it off like he didn’t just make an embarrassing noise at his touch, but the mortification is overwhelming and he can’t move. James is looking back at him with kind, searching eyes. His hand is still hovering over John’s, the faintest whisper of sensation, the air between their hands vibrating with potential. John’s hand starts to shake in response, minute tremors that build even as he tries to grip the pen and regain control. A large strong hand encloses his, warm and reassuring. 

“It’s okay, John.” James is looking at him with such fondness and understanding that John feels as though he may burst. “It’s all fine.” His thumb starts stroking John’s hand, sending a fresh wave of sparks skittering across his skin. John’s mouth has gone dry, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. James’ gaze follows, and then he’s leaning in, and they’re kissing. It’s impossible and unbelievable and John can not fathom how it happened, and yet he can feel James’ lips on his and somehow it’s real. This is happening, this is _actually_ happening. It’s tender and slow and oh so gentle, as soft as the golden light flooding the room behind their closed eyes.

James is careful and precise, as though John is something delicate, instead of a scrappy winger who can take down a scrum-half twice his size. And it’s… nice. It’s perfect. And it’s all John can do to just breathe and let James caress his lips with the tip of his tongue. James brings his other hand to John’s face, cradling his cheek in a broad warm palm, and John melts under his touch.

After a brief eternity, James pulls back, still cupping John’s face in his hand as he looks into his eyes. John is panting, even though they had hardly snogged, just an exploration of lips, the slightest hint of tongue, but John is breathless and lightheaded.

“Okay?” James’ eyes are full of concern, and his sweet expression makes something hurt deep inside of John in a way that doesn’t really hurt at all. It’s unsettling and confusing, how he feels so much, so many different things at once, nebulous and unnamed.

John attempts a smile, and is only partially successful. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m good.” James smiles in return, a real one, and slides his fingertips over John’s jaw.

“Yes, you are.” He sits back, letting his hand fall from John’s face. He gives John’s hand a little squeeze before releasing it as well. “But we ought to get back to work. Your dad’s paying me to teach you statistics, after all, not snogging lessons.” John laughs, and for the first time that afternoon feels himself relax. 

“Okay.”

James turns back to the textbook and points to a problem. “Let’s start with this one.” John leans forward, and it’s easier to concentrate on the string of numbers, his nerves now somewhat abated. “And after we finish this chapter,” James continues, eyes still fixed on the work, “we can continue with the other lesson.” John feels himself blush, accompanied by a giddy trill of joy. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Maybe it is going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Mycroft: “Oh Sherlock. What do we say about coincidence?”_  
>  _Sherlock: “The universe is rarely so lazy.”_  
>  _Mycroft: “So the balance of probability is-“_  
>  _Sherlock: “One went to great lengths to find out something about this wedding.”_  
> 
> 
> To see how this relates to Jolto, please drop EVERYTHING and go read [Heimish's amazing meta series](http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/post/114585218133/courtroom-women-mayfly-men-part-4-we-need-to) (link takes you to part 4, which is the Jolto-specific chapter, but you should really start from the beginning to soak in all the brilliance).
> 
> About rugby: I used to play rugby in high school, one of the smallest girls on the team. I played wing, so of course I headcanon John as wing. Small but tough as hell, and FAST, we know how to score! (^_~)  
>  About statistics: I was not a fan of statistics, and by writing John's struggles into this story, it made me have to go back and research that god awful subject. Oh the irony!  
>  About me: When I was John's age in this fic, I thought I was going to go pre-med. It's always a self-portrait, isn't it? I also knew I was bi, but unlike John, I had no qualms about it, and was very out with friends and family. I was very lucky to find myself surrounded by queer-friendly support. I hope I was able to portray the uncertainty and fear around being queer and coming out, and that this humble ficlet may provide support for those who don't have it in their lives. You are not alone!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


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